


Vigilante Justice, Prejudice and Pride

by steelplatedhearts



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Incest, M/M, Post Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:15:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He waits for a moment, staring up at the fluorescent lighting. There is no vision, no lightning bolt or flood of water, but there’s a certainty in his soul that no matter what else happens, he will not have to face it without Murphy.<br/>Maybe it’s a sign from God. Maybe it’s hopeless optimism.<br/>But then, that’s what makes faith faith—believing that God is making Himself clear to you, that your prayers are not going unheard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigilante Justice, Prejudice and Pride

Da goes back to Ireland the day after they deal with Yakavetta. He doesn’t ask them to go with him, and they don’t offer.

“Take care of yerselves,” he says, keeping a careful amount of space between him and them.

“You too,” Connor says. Murphy hovers just behind his shoulder and doesn’t say anything.

And just like that, he’s gone, just as quickly as he got there. It seems like the kind of thing they should be more upset about, Connor thinks, but he doesn’t mind much. He’s been gone so long, lifted to a goddamn mythical figure, that it’s almost a relief when he leaves again.

He’s still got Murphy, at least, which is all he really needs.

*   *   *   *   *  

They pull over at a shitty motel just outside of New York City. Connor gets a room, pays with cash, while Murphy grabs the bag they need for a night and hides everything else in the trunk.

Their room is small, badly lit, and cheaply furnished with one bed, a TV with questionable reception, and a dingy bathroom that almost feels like home. They undress in silence, and Connor switches out the light as they collapse into the bed. He tips his head back, stares out the window at the neon lights outside, and breathes deep, Murphy warm and solid at his side.

“Hell of a week,” Murphy says, voice floating out of the darkness.

Connor snorts. “Aye.”

“Smecker’ll have his hands full,” Murphy says. “Almost feel bad fer the guy.”

“He can handle it,” Connor says absently, listening to the cars on the street. Murphy shifts, brushing his fingers against Connor’s, carefully twining them together.

“He’ll have an easier time of it than we will, anyway,” Murphy says. “What with the eyewitness descriptions, an’ the manhunt.”

“Nah,” Connor says. “Who’s he got helpin’ him? Greenley? _A friend loveth at all times, an’ a brother is born fer adversity.”_

“Adversity,” Murphy says, rolling the word around in this mouth. “Sounds about right.”

“Can’t think of anythin’ more adverse than our current circumstances, aye?” Connor asks. “What with most folks wanting to kill us.”

Murphy laughs softly at that, but he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t let go of Connor’s hand either. They drift off like that, lulled to sleep by the traffic outside their window.

*   *   *   *   *  

They don’t have Rocco anymore, and even if they did, Rocco wouldn’t know much about the scum in New York. So it’s just them now, them and God, which is the way it’s always been.

“So,” Murphy says, head tipped back over the hotel couch, waving his cigarette in the air as he swings his legs over the side, “what do we do?”

“Filth attracts filth,” Connor says. “We find one of ‘em, we’ll find more.”

“Find another scumbag yard sale,” Murphy says with a grin, bringing the cigarette to his lips. “I like it.”

*   *   *   *   * 

“You guys are fucking _lunatics,_ ” their latest piece of dirt snarls, glaring up at them from the floor. “What the fuck makes you better than me?”

“ _Fer he is the minister of God t’thee fer good_ ,” Murphy says, grabbing the man’s shirt collar and forcing his head back. “ _But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; fer he beareth not t’sword in vain._ ”

“ _Fer he is the minister of God_ ,” Connor continues,  “ _a revenger t’execute wrath upon him that doeth evil_.”

A short prayer, two gunshots, and a few pennies later, and they’re gone. They blend into the crowds on the streets, looking for all the world like they didn’t just kill a room full of thieves and murderers.

“Comes easy, don’t it?” Murphy says. “Like fallin’ off a fuckin’ bike.”

“Aye,” Connor says. “Want t’go fer a coffee?”

“Sounds good,” Murphy says.

They wind up at a Denny’s, which is where people usually seem to gravitate to when it’s late and they have nowhere else to go. It’s sparsely populated, and the waitress looks dead on her feet.

“Y’think they’re gonna bring in Smecker?” Murphy asks, digging into his food.

Connor shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. “Couldn’t catch us in Boston, could he? They’ll get someone else.”

“Well, it ain’t like he was tryin’ to catch us,” Murphy says. “He gave it an effort, he could pull it off.”

“But he won’t, though,” Connor argues. “Besides, they don’t know he wasn’t tryin’ to get us.”

“Hopefully, they won’t get anyone smarter’n him,” Murphy says, snatching a piece of bacon off Connor’s plate. “Or we’re sunk.”

“We ain’t sunk,” Connor says. “We’ve got t’Lord on our side.”

Murphy smiles, sharp and quick. “Aye. That we do.”

They leave a hundred dollars for their waitress when they leave.

*   *   *   *   *  

He whispers Latin into his brother’s skin while Murphy writhes underneath him, traces the sign of the cross with his tongue as Murphy pulls at his hair, and thinks: _Better than heaven._

*   *   *   *   *  

Murphy goes out for a coffee run in the morning and comes back with the paper.

“Didn’t take long,” he says, tossing it at Connor’s head. “Someone’s payin’ attention, at least.”

Connor catches the paper and unfolds it. The headline reads “BOSTON SAINTS COME TO NEW YORK,” and directly beneath it are rough sketches of two men who are probably supposed to be them.

“Who the fuck drew this shit?” Connor asks.

“Sketch artist from the Yakavetta trial, probably,” Murphy says. “Fuckin’ pathetic.”

Connor reads the rest of the article carefully, his coffee untouched on the side table. “Well, they don’t know what we look like,” he says finally, folding the paper back up, “and nobody said anythin’ about Smecker, so he probably ain’t involved.”

“Course, any mobsters around are goin’ t’be on guard,” Murphy counters. “If they’re smart, at least, which they probably ain’t.”

“Not in the fuckin’ least,” Connor says. “But smart or no, they’re expectin’ us now. The polite thing t’do would be to oblige them.”

Murphy grins at him, dark and feral. “Ma did teach us manners, after all.”

*   *   *   *   *  

They do a little bit of research, a little bit of digging, and find that most of the power in New York City is held by the Bianco family, and its patriarch, Vincenzo. They don’t have an inside man, and they don’t want a repeat of Yakavetta’s house, so they decide it’s time for an old-fashioned stakeout.

He likes to keep to his routines, which is good news for them. They find out on day two of the stakeouts that he has a weekly meeting at his home with all of his top-level men, which is even better.

“He brings everyone in fer the meetin’ next week,” Murphy says, “and then we fuckin’ strike. Aye?”

“Aye,” Connor says. “That gives us seven days to prepare.”

“ _And on t’seventh day God ended his work which he had made_ ,” Murphy says. “Perfect.”

*   *   *   *   *  

They’re sitting in a bar two blocks away from Bianco’s with six days until they strike when Murphy says, “D’ye think we should go t’confession?”

Connor puts down his glass and raises his eyebrows. “What do you have t’confess?”

Murphy crosses his arms on the table, resting his head. “Murder, robbery…” He trails off, eyes flicking in Connor’s direction. “Other stuff.”

“Well, the way I figure, we’re square w’God,” Connor says. “He’s fine with t’murders, seeing as it was His idea in the first place, and anythin’ we do to accomplish those ends is fine. As to the other stuff—well, if He disapproved, He’d’ve said.”

“Fair enough,” Murphy concedes, “but I’d like t’go anyway. It’s been a while.”

Connor shrugs. “Fine. We’ll go once I’m done with my drink.”

*   *   *   *   *  

They drive mostly in silence, Connor focused on the road and Murphy staring absently out the window, and find a little place out of the way, some rundown church called St. Joseph’s. Murphy heads straight for the confession booth, while Connor takes a seat in the back of the church and kneels, pulling out his rosary.

Murphy is in there for a long time, longer than Connor expected. When he finally emerges, he looks relaxed, almost more focused than he did at the bar.

“Ya goin’ in?” he asks.

“Aye.” Connor stands and switches places with Murphy, heading down to the confessional.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he says, settling into the booth. “It has been two months since my last confession.”

The priest coughs slightly. “Em—yes, go ahead, my son.”

Connor pauses, smirking. “M’brother was the one just in here. In case you were wonderin’.”

“Ah,” the priest says weakly.

“I’m not really here t’confess,” Connor says. “The Lord and I have everythin’ sorted out.”

“Are you certain about that, my son?” the priest says, skeptically.

“Pretty certain, Father,” Connor says. “Although I’m sure talking t’Murphy might have made you think otherwise.”

“If you’re not here to confess,” the priest says, “then why are you here?”

Connor stays silent for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he says, finally. “Murph got somethin’ out of comin’ today. Thought maybe I’d see what.”

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

“Excellent advice, Father,” Connor says. “Amen.” He rises and leaves, motioning to Murphy on his way out the door.

“You get t’say yer piece?” he asks once they’re settled back into the car, heading back to the hotel.

“Aye,” Murphy says.

Connor waits a moment before it becomes clear that Murphy isn’t going to keep talking. “And?”

“And what?” Murphy says, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Dunno,” Connor says. “You just seem more relaxed, is all.”

Murphy leans back in the seat and lights a cigarette. “It’s nice t’vent sometimes,” he says, cracking the window. “Especially to someone who ain’t you, no offense.”

“None taken,” Connor says. “I think.” He pauses, turning Murphy’s words over in his mind. “Well—what d’ye have to vent about?”

“Nothin’ much,” Murphy says.

“Because, if y’need to vent—” Connor says, gripping the steering wheel.

“Calm the fuck down, Con,” Murphy says, twisting in his seat to stare directly at Connor. “It’s nice t’talk shit over w’someone who ain’t you an’ who won’t arrest me. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “I know that.”

Murphy stares at him for a moment, and then relaxes back into his seat. “Y’fuckin’ idiot.”

Connor has to smile at that.

*   *   *   *   *  

Murphy beats a man to death in an alleyway late at night, five days before they eliminate Bianco.

They’re a little bit careless, a little bit drunk, and the man has them disarmed and cornered in a flash. Connor lunges at their assailant, shoving Murphy behind him, but before he can so much as land a punch, the man stabs him in the gut.

He stumbles away, pain shooting through his body, and Murphy lets out a wordless howl of rage. Connor falls to his knees— _put pressure on t’wound, idiot_ —and crawls towards his gun, discarded near a dumpster.

His fingers close around the handle, and he staggers to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. He folds in on himself, trying to stay upright, and raises the gun to help Murphy.

Murphy, however, doesn’t seem to need help. He’s raining blows on the main like a vengeful angel, eyes dark, driving his fist into the man’s face over and over and over again.

“He’s had enough, Murph,” Connor says eventually. “Let ‘im be.”

Murphy takes no notice of him, continuing his assault long past the point where the man has stopped fighting back. He moves away, finally, covered in blood, and crosses himself.

“ _Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed_ ,” he says under his breath. “Connor?”

“I’m fine, ye moron,” Connor says, pushing himself off the wall and staggering towards his brother. “C’mere.”

Murphy looks down, kicks the man’s body one last time, then crosses to Connor, pulling Connor’s arm over his shoulder and wrapping his arm around Connor’s waist. “How bad is it?”

“Fixable,” Connor says, stumbling along after Murphy. “How’s the other guy look?”

“Down fer the fuckin’ count,” Murphy says, viciously, and Connor sneaks a glance at the body as they pass by.

He ain’t getting up again, that’s for sure.

*   *   *   *   *  

“It’s almost like they _want_ t’be caught,” Connor says, kneeling down to place pennies on the eyes of their latest victim, three days before Bianco’s. “Are all of Bianco’s people just very incompetent?”

“Maybe,” Murphy says, flashing him a triumphant grin. “Or maybe we’re just that good.”

“Yeah, Rambo,” Connor says. “We’re just that good.”

Murphy pauses, turns to him. “You’re thinkin’, aren’t you?”

“Course I am,” Connor says, straightening up and crossing himself. “Your sorry ass ain’t gonna be much help in that department.”

“You think it was too easy,” Murphy says, ignoring the jab.

“Yeah,” Connor says. “I do.”

Murphy holsters his gun, steps over a body to reach Connor, and takes his brother’s head in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. “It ain’t gonna be like Yakavetta’s,” he says, voice low. “We’re prepared, aye?”

Connor swallows hard, wrapping his hands around Murphy’s wrists, and tries very hard not to think of Rocco’s body lying on the floor, of Murphy broken and battered in that goddamn basement. “Aye,” he whispers. “We’re prepared.”

*   *   *   *   *  

They don’t look like twins, and it’s bothered them for years.

They get the Virgin Mary on their necks when they’re seventeen, _veritas_ and _aequitas_ on mirroring hands when they’re eighteen, and matching knots and crosses on their arms and legs at nineteen. There is never any discussion of getting tattoos without the other, because if they can’t look alike, they can at least ink their skin to match.

Their differences in appearance don’t bother Connor so much anymore, though. He’s never been one to let the opinions of random fucks on the street stop him from doing what he likes, but it’s nice to not worry overmuch about getting looks when he holds Murphy’s hand in the subway, or when he presses Murphy into the wall of some bar and kisses him breathless. They get sideways glances, sure, but nothing on the level of what they’d get if they resembled each other more closely.

The night before they move in on Bianco, Connor makes up his mind about New York—it’s too big, too unfriendly, and too rude. He far prefers the atmosphere of Boston, with its welcoming air and sense of home. But for the simple fact that he can kiss Murphy on the street without anyone blinking an eye—well.

He can forgive a multitude of sins for that.

*   *   *   *   *  

They’ve got their masks pulled down securely over their faces, rosaries around their necks, and guns in their hands. “You nervous?” Connor asks Murphy, like he asked the first time, like he’s asked every time since.

Murphy shrugs. “Not really, no.”

“You should be,” Connor says, triple-checking his gun to make sure it’s loaded. “A little nervousness is good fer t’soul.”

Murphy snorts, crossing himself. Connor follows suit, and they step out of the shadowed alleyway. “Time for some excessive violence,” Murphy mutters.

“Amen.”

*   *   *   *   *  

Bianco is waiting for them, which in all honesty, was expected. What they didn’t expect was just how prepared he was.

They don’t get the man who jumps behind the couch, but they don’t get clean, easy kills either. What they get is damn near a massacre, similar to when Da tried to kill them, but instead of three against one, it’s two against what seems like every hitman in New York City.

Murphy goes down right off the fucking bat, gets hit twice before Connor can pull him back. Connor drags him behind the sofa (and isn’t _that_ fucking ironic, or whatever), and pops back up to kill everyone who’s attempting to hurt Murphy, but Bianco’s people—well, they’re _good_.

Sirens start to wail in the distance, and Murphy props himself up to fire back. “ _Fuckers_ ,” he hisses, leaning on Connor for balance.

“Make t’shots count,” Connor says, killing two more men. “I think we’re about t’have company.”

Murphy just nods and raises his gun, taking aim.

After longer than he’d like, the room goes quiet. Connor pokes his head out from behind the sofa, scanning the room, and then cautiously rises and helps Murphy to his feet.

“I believe we owe Mr. Bianco a visit,” Murphy says, staring out the window in the direction of the sirens. “Sooner rather’n later.”

They clear the first floor, clear the second, and finally make their way down to the basement, where Bianco is waiting with a shotgun. Before he gets a chance to fire it, Murphy kicks it out of his hands, wincing in pain as he does so.

“You all right?”

“I will be,” Murphy says, “once we take care of this asshole.”

Connor pulls his gun out of his jacket, aiming it at the back of Bianco’s head. “And shepherds we shall be,” he says, starting off the prayer. “For thee, m’lord, for thee.”

Bianco does not beg, does not curse, just stays still and glares. It’s a refreshing change of pace, if Connor’s being honest. Pleas for life wear after a while.

“ _En nomeni Patri, et Fili, Spiritus Sancti.”_

He exchanges one more glance with Murphy, and then, simultaneously, they pull the triggers.

*   *   *   *   *  

They limp back to the hotel as quickly as they can, sneak upstairs without attracting any attention. The amenities include an iron and plenty of booze, so they’re able to patch themselves up without too much of a problem.

Connor’s hands shake slightly as he’s washing the blood off his face, and Murphy doesn’t comment on it. “I’m goin’ t’get some ice,” he says finally. “You’ll be all right here?”

“Yeah,” Murphy says, holding a cold cloth to his shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”

The hotel hallway is overly bright and sterile, and Connor finds himself taking quicker steps and staring furtively over his shoulder, as if someone’ll appear to kick him out at any moment.

The night’s final tally is four bullet holes in his brother, four more near fucking misses, which is not what he signed up for.

What _did_ he sign up for?

_Destroy all that which is evil, so that which is good may flourish._

What are they two against the orders of God?

Connor closes his eyes, leans heavily against a vending machine, and prays.

_Dear Lord. I will cleanse t’earth fer you, destroy true evil, set free t’righteous. But I will not do it without my brother._

He waits for a moment, staring up at the fluorescent lighting. There is no vision, no lightning bolt or flood of water, but there’s a certainty in his soul that no matter what else happens, he will not have to face it without Murphy.

Maybe it’s a sign from God. Maybe it’s hopeless optimism.

But then, that’s what makes faith faith—believing that God is making Himself clear to you, that your prayers are not going unheard.

 _Amen_.

When he gets back to the room, he finds that Murphy’s pulled the hotel’s single armchair over to the window, shoved it parallel to the wall, and cracked the window. He’s staring down at the city absently, blowing smoke through the screen, lost in his thoughts.

“I’m going t’bed, “Connor says, hand on the light switch. “Y’coming?”

“I’m not tired,” Murphy says, not moving. “You can go ahead an’ turn off t’light, though.”

Connor does so, and the room is thrown into darkness. He stretches out, settling down, and closes his eyes to attempt to sleep. But the bed is empty, and Murphy’s absence is tangible.

So he rolls over and faces the window, watching Murphy smoke against the city lights. He’s still as a statue, and when he moves the cigarette back to his lips, Connor’s almost surprised.

“This ain’t gonna last, is it?” Murphy says, and Connor sits up, resting his arms on his knees.

“How d’ya mean?” he asks cautiously.

Murphy takes a long drag on his cigarette, blows the smoke out ever so slowly. “We can’t keep doin’ this. It’s gotta stop sometime, aye? Someone’ll catch up with us.”

Connor sighs, gets to his feet, and crosses the room to the window. Murphy stares out the window, avoiding eye contact, so he kneels in between Murphy’s knees, holds on to his hips, and stares up at him until Murphy looks back.

“This ain’t ever goin’ to stop,” he says, looking straight into his brother’s eyes. “It’ll be you an’ me an’ a fight against evil, fer the rest of our goddamn lives.”

Murphy blinks, looks out the window, and takes another drag. “An’ how long is that goin’ t’be?”

“I can’t say,” Connor says softly. “Could be decades, could be a month. We could get arrested, or shot, or beat within an inch of our fuckin’ lives.”

Murphy’s mouth twitches up at the corners. “Is that supposed t’make me feel better?”

“Nah,” Connor says. “What’s supposed t’make you feel better is the fact that whatever happens t’you is goin’ t’happen t’me. You get shot, I get shot. I get arrested, you get arrested. You die, I die.”

Murphy reaches out and squashes his cigarette on the windowsill, still not looking directly at Connor. “Promise?”

Connor reaches up and tips Murphy’s head back towards him. “On me life,” he says, and moves up for a kiss.

*   *   *   *   *  

He hands over the keys, slides in the passenger seat, and props his feet up on the dashboard.

“Where to now?” Murphy asks, fiddling with the seatbelt.

“You pick,” Connor says, lighting a cigarette. “Wherever you think we’re needed.”

“Los Angeles seems like it’s a shithole,” Murphy says, and Connor laughs.

“You just want to visit Los Angeles,” he says.

“So what if I do?” Murphy says, starting the car. “No law that says we can’t be tourists _and_ righteous men.” He takes Connor’s hand, lacing their fingers together and moving them to the console. “It’s either Los Angeles or Detroit. Yer fuckin’ call, but I know which I’d pick.”

“Fine, fine,” Connor says. “Los Angeles.”

Murphy turns to face him, gives him the quick, sharp smile that seems reserved just for him. “Los Angeles,” he echoes, and steps on the gas. The car takes off, hurtling down the road, and Murphy’s hand is warm in his, an anchor to the world rushing by the window. The highway stretches out before them, the sun’s just peeking out behind the clouds, and he’s got Murphy.

It’s all he really needs.


End file.
